*****
Over the past five months, however, the intimate amour that she and Quinter had begun at Davis-Jones had eroded into to a hollow, impersonal, business affiliation. What made this increasingly difficult for her to bear was her late-blooming discovery that she was in love with him. That he could not, or would not, reciprocate her feelings troubled her so greatly that she eventually determined that their relationship would not continue in its present form. She would either succeed in recapturing the joy and passion of their former love, or she would move elsewhere and rebuild her life.
The trip to Spain would be her last effort to rekindle their romance.
*****
The train was now traveling through the valleys and passes of the Betic Mountains. The misting rain had stopped for some time, and occasionally, brilliant shafts of sunlight shone between the broken clouds. The views were breathtaking – enormous brown and red outcroppings of rugged rock that overlooked lush green valleys a thousand feet below on one side and immediately adjacent to flat land on the other, stretching toward level rolling brown hills. The view was accentuated by areas of intense color highlighted by the bright sun.
A Roman aqueduct built on four tiers of arches paralleled the track for a short distance, then took an angular course and receded from view behind a low rise. Off in the hills there was a little mountain village with white-stuccoed houses, its red-tiled roofs, connected by common walls, all of which were outlined in immaculate detail against the soft-toned foot-hill in the distance.
*****
Before he actually noticed him Quinter felt the presence of a man next to him. As he snapped his head to the left, he felt a powerful grip on his left arm just above his elbow, and then a sharp jab above his left hip.
“Do not try anything foolish or by the grace of Allah I will shove this blade into your guts,” said a soft steady voice in a thick Middle Eastern accent. “That’s right. Easy. Easy. Now slowly around fountain and toward archway. We have some talk to make.”
As they walked lock step along a diagonal across the plaza, Quinter began sizing up his adversary. The man was about his height but heavier, and judging by the strength of the grasp, very strong.
The awkwardness of the gait made Quinter momentarily lose his balance, and the bite of the knife made him wince.
“No foolish Meester Qinter or you will spend much time getting better, or maybe not at all,” growled the man in a forced whisper. The man and Quinter reached the wrought iron arch spanning the entrance to a playground filled with laughing children.
“Now this way, down street.”
The narrow street had room for no more than one small vehicle to pass at a time. Buildings lined either side of the road, and it appeared to end in about a hundred feet, branching into a three-way intersection. The road, which had no streetlights, was deserted and darker than the plaza.
As they entered the street the man snarled,” You take not our warning in U.S., Meester Quinter. Allah is angry and unforgiving.” A door opened and an old woman walked out carrying a pail and mop. She came toward the men and then passed by giving no sign of noticing anything unusual.
They approached the narrow corner and Quinter knew he had very little time to act. His heart thumping wildly in anticipation, he bent forward at the waist feigning a cough, but then clenching his fist, drove his left elbow upward to the rear with as much force as he could.
He made solid contact, and heard the cracking of teeth. Quinter wheeled around. The man’s head was thrown backward, his knees were sagging, and blood was spurting from his mouth. Pressing his advantage, Quinter drove the knuckles of his right hand sharply into his assailant’s now exposed throat, causing a high-pitched wheeze followed by involuntary gurgles from his fractured voice box. To finish him off, Quinter delivered a powerful kick to the groin, and the man crashed into the side of the building. As he fell, his head struck a small stone gargoyle, before hitting the cobblestone pavement with a thud.
“Do not try anything foolish or by the grace of Allah I will shove this blade into your guts,” said a soft steady voice in a thick Middle Eastern accent. “That’s right. Easy. Easy. Now slowly around fountain and toward archway. We have some talk to make.”
As they walked lock step along a diagonal across the plaza, Quinter began sizing up his adversary. The man was about his height but heavier, and judging by the strength of the grasp, very strong.
The awkwardness of the gait made Quinter momentarily lose his balance, and the bite of the knife made him wince.
“No foolish Meester Qinter or you will spend much time getting better, or maybe not at all,” growled the man in a forced whisper. The man and Quinter reached the wrought iron arch spanning the entrance to a playground filled with laughing children.
“Now this way, down street.”
The narrow street had room for no more than one small vehicle to pass at a time. Buildings lined either side of the road, and it appeared to end in about a hundred feet, branching into a three-way intersection. The road, which had no streetlights, was deserted and darker than the plaza.
As they entered the street the man snarled,” You take not our warning in U.S., Meester Quinter. Allah is angry and unforgiving.” A door opened and an old woman walked out carrying a pail and mop. She came toward the men and then passed by giving no sign of noticing anything unusual.
They approached the narrow corner and Quinter knew he had very little time to act. His heart thumping wildly in anticipation, he bent forward at the waist feigning a cough, but then clenching his fist, drove his left elbow upward to the rear with as much force as he could.
He made solid contact, and heard the cracking of teeth. Quinter wheeled around. The man’s head was thrown backward, his knees were sagging, and blood was spurting from his mouth. Pressing his advantage, Quinter drove the knuckles of his right hand sharply into his assailant’s now exposed throat, causing a high-pitched wheeze followed by involuntary gurgles from his fractured voice box. To finish him off, Quinter delivered a powerful kick to the groin, and the man crashed into the side of the building. As he fell, his head struck a small stone gargoyle, before hitting the cobblestone pavement with a thud.